


Treasure

by Trifoilum



Series: Texting Robert [13]
Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Conversations, Domestic Fluff, Flea Markets, Fluff, I'm using my own dadsona here, Just two dads hanging out together really, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-10 00:10:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18648934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trifoilum/pseuds/Trifoilum
Summary: “Of course there’s Cheetos ice cream here. Every single one of these tents is a fucking souvenir shop, I swear.”





	Treasure

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I'm explicitly using my own Dadsona here. Say hi to Franklin Ward! You might have met him properly in [Safe Space.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16200857)
> 
> No content warnings, I think, and unbetaed. But feel free to point out any mistakes or something I might have erred on!

There’s all the tie-dyed scarfs, there’s the sport jerseys from who the fuck knows when, and then there’s the T-shirts. With old logos printed in neon colors, they were too bright to resemble anything but diluted memories; someone’s lazy idea of what the past looked like.

Robert whipped the rack of clothes shut.

They had arrived quite early and this so-called seasonal flea market was just starting. The spring air still carried the traces of winter with it. If it had fangs it would be a kitten’s; enough to annoy without being particularly painful.

It was their third year here; also their first as visitors. Franklin tried to sell his junks in the first year and Robert joined with his own junks in the second. Nobody had ever vetted the participants and genuine Sixties postcards were sold right in-between counterfeit Prada and vegan bacons. No one was sure either if all these sellers were actual locals. For the hunter, the whole thing really was no more than the proverbial middle child, existing only so the local government could have something to advertise during the spring.

Meanwhile, somewhere around the parking lot outside the shopping mall, Creedence Clearwater Revival was playing. Had been playing. Had been _blasting_ for almost an hour, part of a mutually assured destruction with whoever was playing a Russian dubstep on repeat. Robert had half a mind to force all parties involved to just duke it out right in the open, but as it was he just made a low grumble before walking away.

Nevertheless, he felt zero need to wash down the sharp edges with booze. Hadn’t felt that particular urge for a week by now, which was a record. And the annoyance remained no more than a thorn; nothing like the deep-seated disgust that would only grow with each conscious second, as much self-hatred as it was weariness with the world.

Yet another thing he would attribute to his boyfriend, if Franklin would ever deign to accept his part in all this.

Speaking of whom, there he was. With tote bag clutched firmly, wet speckles marring the sleeves of his cardigan, and looking all pleased, the younger man approached Robert to offer the final remnants of a soft serve ice cream. Finishing two short stories three days before the deadline would make anyone giddy, figured the older man.

“They do look awful,” he commented on the tent Robert was just leaving from.  “Like the vendor mistook old MTVs with reality.”

Robert nodded in agreement. “It’s worse than awful. It’s themed.” Leaning forward, he chomped the entire cone in one large bite. And then proceeded to grimace as he tried to decipher the salty sweetness in his mouth. “And what _is_ this?”

“Cheetos. Quite a strange flavor, isn’t it.”

“Blech.” He made a retching gesture. No ice cream should taste that savory. “Of course there’s Cheetos ice cream here. Every single one of these tents is a fucking souvenir shop, I swear.”

“Souvenir shop?”

“Look around.” Robert spread his arms wide. “Seen any used goods this year? Y’know, what a fucking flea market were supposed to sell?”

“What about the one near the entrance?” asked Franklin as he wiped his hands clean with wet wipes.

“Those are fucking antiques, buddy, not the kind of thing you buy because you can’t afford anything else,” Robert playfully jabbed a finger. “The flea markets I know might not look this nice, but they’re damned treasure troves.”

“Mmm. I know that feeling.” Together with the cone wrapper, the crumpled bundle was tossed into a nearby trashcan. “Did you use to go there often?”

“If I got the bucks. Used to spend a whole day if I did, haggling for scraps.”

“And what did you do with them?”

Franklin was gazing the way he always did, like Robert was telling the most interesting story he’d heard in ages. There was no pressure, just overwhelming curiosity and consideration, and that never failed to turn the butterflies in Robert’s stomach all aflutter.

“MacGyver the shit outta them, of course. A lot of things you can do with a bit o’ patience and duct tapes,” said the older man. “Here, though? Not sure they can stand anything more than a gentle knock, if you know what I’m saying.”

He gave a playful wink for emphasis. That made Franklin chuckle, a dusting of red creeping on pale skin.

“I think I know what you’re talking about,” replied the writer. This long stretch of parking lot smelled suspiciously devoid of dust and mothballs. Most of the visitors were clearly bored families in vacation and retirees with too much free time and money, the kind who would frown at the Coffee Spoon for being too ghetto. Already some of them were carrying shopping bags. “So it’s probably safe to say that this looks more like an artist market than anything else. What do you think?”

Of course, his first reaction was to study the situation to death. Just Franklin being Franklin.

“C’mon, the proof lies perfectly in that middle-class pudding,” said Robert, folding his arms. “People with money always wants the history without any of the grit. Happened with cowboys and ripped jeans, hip-hop and all those blings, prostitution and stripper heels. Doesn’t take too much of a stretch to say the same about flea markets.”

“So you’re essentially claiming that this is, more or less, a form of gentrification,” mused his boyfriend with the slightest tilt of his head. “I did see the so-called pre-distressed sneakers here. And the shirts with artsy holes on them.”

“You’re dead right it is, bud.” Robert flicked a swaying boa scarf until it lightly slapped his own arm. “I mean, sure; it’s a wild, competitive world out there. Doesn’t change the fact at all.”

“Not exactly wrong.” Franklin’s eyes wandered left and right, but they never stayed for long, always lingering back to the hunter and his bemused expression. “And competition is exactly what it is. Anyone that dares to survive is expected to rise above the equally struggling crowd.”

“Meanwhile, stuff these days are mass produced _shit_ ,” sighed the hunter long and melodramatic.

“In a manner of speaking. Not only do they have a lower quality, sometimes they are actually designed for a much shorter lifespan. That makes reselling a Catch-22 in so many ways.”

Robert caught a rare glimpse of annoyance in his boyfriend’s voice and nudged him lightly. “You’re really putting a lot of thought into it, aren’t you.”

“After our last two years here? Yes, I have thoughts. Lots of it.”

But none of it came out when they wandered into the dining area. Food trucks were lined together in a particular corner, selling a chock load of hipster food with alien colors. That was fine, Robert was learning to accept Franklin’s less-than-ideal taste, but then he saw the price tags.

Abruptly, they stopped talking, looked at each other, and wordlessly took a sharp turn away into the opposite direction.

Franklin almost made a grumble, and it was hella cute, and Robert found himself smiling fondly. Without knowing it, the thorn in his heart had long dissolved.

A couple feet and the smell of food was still there, as tempting as it was nauseating. They had to skip the next lane before both of them felt alright to talk again.

“I guess from a different perspective, we can also see this event’s quirkiness as Maple Bay being Maple Bay.” Franklin made a little shrug. “This town always has that Manic Pixie Dream Girl feeling, no?”

“You mean bougie,” replied the hunter as he wrapped a spiked belt around his waist. A bedazzled skull was attached on the buckle, too cheaply made for something this expensive, but nobody said anything about buying. “Whaddya say? Good enough for a mean ol’ bastard?”

“That sure looks mean. I can see it appearing in some high fashion reinterpretation of Mad Max.” Franklin made an appreciative smile. “But yes, it’s bougie, in a way.”

Robert folded his arms. “Whaddya mean ‘in a way’?”

“Well.” Franklin tilted his head in thought. “Aside from the understandable urge of keeping public places clean and orderly, a lot of people in vacation are also running away from financial and socioeconomical woes. It makes sense for tourist spots to try keeping a balanced image.”

“ _Whoa_.” The hunter raised both hands, looking like Chris Pratt in that Not-Jurassic-Park movie. “Loaded term you’re using right there, bud.”

“Absolutely, but middle class aesthetic _is_ some kind of balance. There is a reason why the thrift shops here are something more of a local secret.”

“Okay. Do explain.”

“Places like Maple Bay need to present something that looks nice but doesn’t feel unattainable. Because going past that line will only remind people of what they’re trying to run away from. Sometimes that’s a good thing, empathy and all, but in the context of a vacation….”

“Looking too modest or too posh will only disrupt the illusion,” finished the older man.

“Exactly. And that’s a waste of resources, as much as it doesn’t excuse the real consequences from gentrification.”

“People end up working to their bones, and then they escape to places like Maple Bay. The rent goes up, and those who can’t pay have to leave the town.” Robert let a harsh snicker as he returned the belt. “Ridiculous.”

“Worse, it doesn’t always work. Still everyone keep trying to hide their skeletons, and the cycle begins anew.”

Robert snapped his fingers hard as they passed a tent selling, of all things, crystal-studded cutleries. “Can’t let silly things like poverty shatter the narrative, yeah? Just enjoy the beach fantasy and ignore the rotten smell under the floor board.”

Franklin clapped once. “Hospitality.”

Not so long after that, someone must have had enough of the noise because both dubstep and country blissfully stopped around the same time. Dulcet nonsense from some boring cover of old classics started to fill in the silence.

Robert was content to just hold Franklin’s hand as they explored another block. Fake Russian dolls were displayed from large-to-miniscule in a row, their faces badly painted. Old truck wheels sparkled brightly under the sun and he had half a mind to see if they got something for his truck. Franklin also paused to look at a rack full of bulky cameras, but quickly walked away before he saw the prim old seller giving him a smile that showed too much teeth. A Massachusetts restaurateur association had some people spreading brochures about food waste while beside them lawn chairs were arranged in a long array, painted in colors that Robert could only describe as _visceral_.

“I feel like this is what an abstract representation of a lawsuit must have looked like,” said Franklin, wincing.

“In that case, pretty sure that one’s about tax seasons,” Robert pointed his thumb at another one in their left. “We sure that wasn’t blood? _Actual_ blood?”

Franklin had a slight pout as he mulled the question and it had no rights to look _that cute_. “No, the resulting color would be a touch more brown-ish. And blood tends to have less uniformity when layered over wood.” With a thin booklet rolled into a tube, he smacked his own thigh in a rhythmical tap-tap-tap. “But I do suspect whoever painted this was aiming for exactly that resemblance.”

Robert stole a glance towards the vendor, a pretty young woman who came out straight from _The Stepford Wives_. “Guess that’s why so few of our shit were sold, huh. Should’ve done some spin doctorin’; _no, sir, they’re not old, just soaked to the brim with one hundred percent natural dad essence_.”

The loud snort Franklin made was easily covered by the crowd. “I think that beats the purpose of us getting a table in the first place. But I hear you: rumor has it that dads are hip and trendy these days.”

“Just using the word hip and trendy makes you real dated, bud.”

“Fine. They’re hashtag fire, hashtag fire, laughing emoji, orgasming purple cock, hot AF,” replied Franklin with a pointed stare. “That enough?”

Suppressing a groan, Robert checked his boyfriend’s hips until he almost stumbled. In retaliation, two fingers quickly jabbed his side, and Robert had to take a sharp twist to the right as a mother and her bored-as-fuck children were passing him by. That quickly grew into a playful shoving match that was not-at-all-childish, no siree, and if anyone in this parking lot were bothered, they lacked any guts to tell it to their face.

“You, Mr. Small, are absolutely not a zaddy, whatever that is. Brat AF, _brah_.”

“That’s not what your daughter said,” replied Robert, smirking, both hands cocked like a gun.

“ _Oh my god stop_.” Franklin plugged both ears with his own fingers. “Just pour boiling oil through my ear. Spare me the indignity.”

“Oh, hell to the no, buddy,” cackled the hunter. “You dish it, now learn to take it. What is it the kids are saying…”

He leaned forward to bite Franklin’s shoulder.

“Hashtag Pandora’s box, babe.”

That almost netted another hearty shove, but Robert was faster and took a wide step to his left. He returned his boyfriend’s frown with a toothy grin.

But whatever that frown might say didn’t even last long. By halfway through that particular block, the two of them were linked together in the arms again, laughing at nothing and everything. This was no clichéd romantic date, the kind of thing people did only because the movies said so, but he couldn’t deny how much fun he was having.

A pleasant change, given how awkward their first two years here used to be.

Their second year was particularly cursed, with both their lives being shaken by their daughters and each other. It was a mercurial dance they were having. Recovery was difficult, and everything said and unsaid between them haunted each passing second, tempting in one beat and mocking so sharply in the next.

Still, Franklin was there despite having every reason not to. He became the second person ever to witness the truest extent of Robert’s storage: decades-worth of scraping by the skin of his teeth made manifest, piled messily underneath the pricey house that was all Marilyn’s sharp mind and grueling ambition.

And of course he stayed. He always does.

Robert let a deep sigh, and only then did he realize that they have wandered off the tents altogether. He couldn’t care less. The sun was already halfway in its descent. With the majority of the parking lot hijacked by the market, the rest of the space looked considerably more packed with cars than usual. It smelled disgusting, like deep fried batter and motor oil, but there was no one else here other than the two of them.

That absence of distraction also meant he could easily notice the hint of concern slipping underneath his boyfriend’s look.

“’sup?” he asked. “Enjoyed the view?”

“Oh, welcome back,” replied Franklin, not at all surprised. “Is there something on your mind?”

With a sound that was half sigh, half snicker, Robert gave his boyfriend a quick peck. “Yeah, ‘m fine. Just taking a stroll on memory lane. Had a wild time in this place, didn’t we?”

“Today?” A pause, a tilted head, followed by a visible moment of _eureka_. “ _Oh_! Well. You could call it that, yes.”

“Fucking rude, buddy,” the hunter barked a loud laughter. “And here I am thinkin’ we’re about to get warm fuzzies just now.”

“Those days were certainly warm, but I don’t know about fuzzies.” Following a thoughtful silence, the writer stopped in his tracks and turned around to loop his arms loosely around Robert’s waist. “All I remembered was wanting. So much wanting.”

With no noise to cover the subtle wavering in his voice, Robert knew his boyfriend wasn’t talking about secondhand goods. There was no distress on his face, but still the younger man gulped a few times before speaking again.

“I don’t regret it. It wasn’t the right time. But all the awareness in this world wouldn’t make it hurt any less. I kept hoping—I kept hoping I did the right thing by inviting you. And that my recklessness didn’t just destroy something that could have been wonderful.”

“I know,” uttered the older man back, voice solemn. Now that they were past the dancing around, sometimes he found himself wondering what would happen if Franklin decided to take up his offer back then.

His subconscious always gave its answer in a nightmare.

“I know, buddy,” he repeated. “But here we are.”

With a tug, Robert pulled Franklin closer until they were wrapped in each other’s embrace.

Following a loud exhale, his boyfriend’s body lost its tension. “Here we are,” he echoed. Another inhale, this time longer and indulgent, and Franklin slightly drew back to properly look back at him. He was smiling.

Robert wondered, not with a small amount of certainty, if all of today was an attempt to overwrite all those tension they used to have here.

If so, he reckoned they succeeded.

After the silence lost its edge, and before they started walking again, Franklin looked up to notice the sky lingering in a pale blue color. Soon, the sun would set properly.

“Well. There we have it. Anything you want to have a second look, maybe?” he asked.

“Nah, looking at ‘im now.” Robert flashed a dirty grin. “Cute, nerdy, thirsty, just like how I want ‘em. Makes a man wanna do nasty things, y’know?”

He got the feeling that would have worked were they still inside, but as it was now his boyfriend only made a little bow in return. “I humbly accept your sentiment, and will gladly reflect it twofold. But the question persists; would you rather we go home, or do you prefer we linger here and do something else?”

Robert softly laughed and rolled his eyes. “Y’know, the day’s still young. Whaddya say we head inside and get some proper food? Maybe look around to see if there’s still a late winter sale going on.”

“After all this window shopping?” Franklin arched an eyebrow. “Very surprising, Mr. Small.”

“Hey, at least things are much more straightforward there.” Robert lightly punched his boyfriend’s shoulder. ”No other narratives to uphold, just pure ol’ capitalism.”

“Always points for honesty, I suppose,” said the younger man with another shrug. Hand in hand, they started walking again, turning around to cross the sea of cars towards the large building standing just a couple of feet away.

Robert absently wondered if he’d remember anything about those tents. Maybe the general idea; too expensive, too fake, too quirky to be anything but a tourist trap. Or maybe something more specific, like the taste of soggy Cheetos, or the way that studded belt look on him. But he knew he’d remember the way his insides felt warm and fuzzy. The conversation he had, the little smiles and playful touches; he used to long for them, wanted them with every inch of his being, and now there was something to be said about finally getting what you wanted and knowing it would last for a very, very long time.

It reminded him of the flea markets of his youth and all the hidden bargains he would find.

Robert clasped his boyfriend’s hand, and smiled even wider when Franklin returned the gesture.

He didn’t want anything more. He already got a damn fine treasure right here.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, credits to [nerdy-flower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baconnegg/pseuds/nerdy-flower), because some parts of this chapter were inspired from a conversation we had about small vacation towns.
> 
> Thanks for reading through the end! It's good to be back to writing again, and what's better to write than two dads being thoughtful dorks and hanging out together?
> 
> Basically, this is a couple of random in-character conversation I'm having in my head, tied together with some setting. This was one of the areas I'm struggling at, because I always made it too long. Heck, I've cut a couple of them here, as well as separating a whole other subplot to _maybe_ reuse in a whole different fic if I managed to finish all the other drafts I already have.
> 
> If Franklin was ever a Dream Daddy love interest, that flea market moment in the first year would be his first date. Robert did a damn fine job with it, but Brian would have gained the most score.


End file.
